Fuel
by Steelcircle
Summary: G1 Transformers S3: The Autobots Jazz, Grapple, Cliffjumper, Mirage, and Hound have the Combaticon Onslaught captured, but the real trouble only starts there.


**Fuel**

Onslaught hung bound to the wall, not for the first time and certainly not for the last if he had anything to say about it. This particular time, however, he was constrained by energy bonds to the back wall of the sole detention cell in an Autobot starship. Clearly, the situation was less than optimal, but Onslaught had made do. Improvisation was a distasteful subject to him, even as he was forced to grudgingly admit its value. Improvisation was like radioactive fuel, he mused, unspeakably dirty but quite powerful if used properly. Onslaught counted the time, splitting milliseconds. He had allowed for quite a large margin of error, but he was dipping rather far into it by now. Perhaps the Autobots had noticed his sabotage? It would make his task harder, albeit not impossible. He would mourn most for the death of his plan, yet unhatched. How many stillborns did he carry within him, painstakingly-wrought monuments to failed forecasts?

Then, the ship rocked ever so slightly. Seventeen picoseconds to spare. There was no excuse for it; Onslaught was getting sloppy. That slovenly Charr existence had to be to blame, as did Galvatron's inferior leadership skills. A proper leader would never let his troops go so lax. Onslaught could only shudder when he pondered what his Combaticons might be up to in his absence.

* * *

Cliffjumper was up from his seat as soon as the ship rocked. Flights in an atmosphere might be as bumpy as anything, but spaceflights were smooth, unless something was wrong. The full-sizes would be scolding him as soon as they came to their wits, but Cliffjumper preferred to meet danger on his feet or wheels rather than passively take it sitting down.

Even seated, Grapple was taller than the Minibot, and he sighed, looked down his nose at Cliffjumper. Grapple chided, "Do settle down and strap back into your chair. You'll only get tossed into the bulkheads if there's another jolt."

As prophesied, the next thing that Cliffjumper felt was the sudden impact of the bulkheads sneaking up on him. After he recovered from the sparkly-snow daze that had settled over his visual feeds, Cliffjumper grumbled, "I'm blaming you, Grapple."

The other Autobot just sniffed haughtily. Cliffjumper bet he was too chicken to respond.

Hound lounged in the same state of uneasiness that had afflicted him the entire trip. Cliffjumper was ready for anything, but Hound liked having a nice, solid planet under his feet. They all knew that he missed Earth.

Mirage was absent from the passenger cabin, out standing duty guarding Onslaught. Cliffjumper had doubted the spy at times, but he had no such doubts now.

Jazz's voice crackled over the ship's comm. system, sounding a little strained, although Cliffjumper was sure it was just the static playing tricks. Hey cats, I hope you're chilling back there, because this is going to take a while, and the lights of this party need a rest for a bit. We've got a fuel leak, it looks like. Grapple, you're up. I'll show you what I've got.

* * *

The ship plunged into darkness, but Grapple's optics quickly adapted to the near-blackness, lit by stars and optics. Frowning thinly, Grapple unclipped himself and took a few cautious steps, as if expecting the ship to rock again. Confident that it would not after those testing steps, he strode purposefully towards the door. Then, another shock knocked over the architect, toppling him like the Constructicons had toppled Grapple's own tower.

Grapple kept his hand on the wall thereafter to steady himself, although the ship stayed peaceful. In fact, the ship was unnervingly peaceful. He could not feel the familiar hum and rattle through the ship's wall that would be expected of a properly operating ship. Jazz had mentioned them losing fuel, though. The explanation no doubt lied therein. He keyed in his access code, and the cockpit door switched open with a pneumatic hiss, loud in the quiet ship.

The pilot's chair was backlit by the blinking monitors and gauges of the shuttle. Jazz spun around in the pilot's chair, blue optic band serious. Grapple had rarely seen that look on Jazz. The sports car was a highly trained operative, Grapple well knew, but as an architect and repair technician, he had few chances to see Jazz with his special operations 'game face' on. They were down to business, then. Pursing his lips, Grappled thanked Primus for the small mercy that Cliffjumper was behind them. Grapple withdrew his toolkit and inquired, "So, what seems to be the problem?"

Jazz pointed to one of the starship's monitors and explained, "There's a leak right there."

Grapple leaned in for a better look. He scowled at what he saw and complained, "They routed a fuel line through the entryway? Terrible engineering, that."

Jazz tapped away at the keyboard, graceful fingers dancing, and called up some more readings on a second monitor. "Looks like a slow leak. Didn't notice it as first. Thought Onslaught's heavy aft was just havin' us burn a little extra."

Grapple studied the diagram thoughtfully and looked at the fuel remaining gauge. He drew back in alarm.

"Don't get 'em scared yet," Jazz said, setting a datapad down on top of the dial. "Don't do no good to panic."

Grapple composed himself and replied, "Of course not. However, while I can repair the leak, we're not going to have enough fuel to make it back."

Jazz nodded slowly. "I've got a call in back ta base. They'll get a tanker out here as fast as they can. Get the leak repaired, and see if you can get anything out of Onslaught. See if he did anything else."

"I am not an interrogator, and if you think that I-" Grapple began, flustered at the mere thought of putting his medical tools to illicit use.

Jazz grinned and shook his head. "It's not you, Grapple. I think our unwanted houseguest might be up to something, though."

Grapple felt relieved. "Oh, right. Indeed. I know that leak was not there when I checked the starship over pre-flight. She was immaculate, in fact."

Jazz nodded slowly. "Now you've got it."

* * *

Cliffjumper paced and opined, "We ought to go check on Onslaught. What if he's gotten loose?"

"I'm sure Mirage would have dropped us a line," Hound insisted, not looking at all enticed by the prospect of unbuckling and standing up.

"Well… maybe Mirage couldn't," Cliffjumper argued. "Those Combaticons are tricky bootlegs for over-fed combat buggies."

"You can't fight what you can't see," Hound reminded and patted his holographic projector fondly. He added, "Besides, we stripped out all of Onslaught's weapons before we even took him onboard. He's as harmless as a Decepticon can be."

"Pretty harmful, then," Cliffjumper snorted. "I don't know how those slag-eaters do it, but they do. I'm going to go check on them."

Hound frowned vaguely and said, "I don't know. If something's really wrong, we'll all need to be easily accounted for."

"I'll drop you a line," Cliffjumper shot back, already headed down to the hold and the detention cell. He easily shimmied down the ladder, for all that the rungs were spaced too far apart to be comfortable to him, and jumped down to the floor. Cliffjumper found his way past the cargo lashed to the floor, moving easily through spaces a bigger Transformer might have found a tight squeeze. At last, he beheld the cell. He couldn't help smiling a little. The Combaticon didn't look half so proud stripped of his missile backpack and bound up like a tin turkey. Mirage was no where to be seen, something that always worried Cliffjumper, although he was trying harder to deal with it now. He knew Mirage was a loyal Autobot and good comrade. He knew it.

Onslaught did not look at Cliffjumper and instead kept his gaze blank and impassive. He did not struggle and seemed to be content to be chained. He was not as fun as other prisoners had been. Cliffjumper remembered the Stunticons' incarceration fondly.

The Minibot hollered, "Hey, are you on a rest cycle or just that dull?"

"I am simply meditating upon my end. I am pleased that no one has attempted to make a foolish rescue attempt."

"What-why?" Cliffjumper asked quickly, confused. Autobots would rough up Decepticons, sure, but only in battle. They didn't even hurt their captives, let alone execute them. Not unless they had really done something terrible. Come to think of it, Onslaught might have. Still, Decepticons were so stupid. "What kind of idiot doesn't want to be rescued?"

"Aside from the criminal shame of being not self-sufficient as a warrior?" Onslaught asked softly. "You see, your ship is losing fuel and is quite dangerously close to a gravity well. When it crashes, we will all be, ah, one, as you Autobots put it. If any rescuers came for me, you might be able to drain their fuel, pull out, and survive."

Cliffjumper stared for a moment. Then, he scoffed, "You're just talking crazy talk. Jazz said we were just going to be delayed for a bit."

"No doubt Jazz hopes that. No doubt Grapple will tell him differently, once he sees the leak. Ask Grapple. For all your hypocrisy, you Autobots are horrid at lying to each other on simple matters."

"Is anything that comes out of your mouth not smelt?"

"Ask Grapple. If I am lying to you, you have nothing of which to be afraid, do you not?"

"You are lying, and I don't need to waste my electricity repeating your dirty words."

Onslaught laughed, a quiet sound that took Cliffjumper a while to classify as actual laughter. It sounded eerie, more like a march than anything to do with humour.

* * *

Fixing the leak was a simple matter for Grapple. If only they had noticed it sooner, they might not have such a predicament on their hands. Of course, if the shuttle was better-engineered, they would also not have this particular problem. Military equipment so often was designed by the lowest bidder, he mused bitterly.

Speaking of military equipment designed by the lowest bidder, Grapple heard Onslaught laughing before he spotted the Combaticon. The sound was surprisingly aristocratic to come from someone who was worse than a hired mercenary. Grapple could only sigh when he saw Cliffjumper there. Mirage was nowhere to be seen, but Grapple was unsurprised.

Before Grapple could start, Onslaught announced calmly, "The ship is losing fuel."

Grapple brushed his hand down his leg and narrowed his optics. He would not allow Onslaught to control this conversation, the only advantage that the imprisoned Combaticon had left. Grapple said, struggling to keep his voice level, "You sound quite certain of this. Might you care to explain why?"

"Certainly. I hit the fuel line in the entryway with my foot when you were hauling me in here," the captive replied, cool but cordial.

Grapple could barely suppress his frustration. Of course, proper construction cost too much to contemplate. He wondered how much more they wasted just dealing with such shoddy work. "I see."

"You may. Do you see quite all of it, though?" Onslaught's orange optics were steady, betraying no trick, and he hung slackly, offering no resistance to his bonds.

Grapple glanced over at Cliffjumper, who was both unusually quiet and watching Grapple carefully. The architect suddenly felt rather more uneasy than he did when this trip had started. With an optic on Cliffjumper, Grapple demurred, "I am afraid that I don't quite follow."

"No, you would not admit if you did, would you? Might cause panic, I hazard. Do feel free to panic now, however, for we are all dead machines walking."

"That's Dead End's deal," Grapple shot back. He noted, however, that Onslaught was perhaps the only one of them not walking. Did he have some back-up plan?

"Why aren't you telling him off, Grapple? Why don't you just tell him he's stuffed with scrap?" Cliffjumper inquired, breaking what must have been a record silence for the loudmouth Minibot.

"Well? Do you really have the fuel to get us out of this gravity well, Grapple?" Onslaught asked, casual as a remark about the weather.

Grapple measured his words as exactingly as he measured dimensions before scribing them to plans. "A refuelling starship has been dispatched."

"Unless I miss my mark, and I rarely do, we are in the vicinity of Aldebaran. Refuelers are not the fastest of ships. Perhaps it will arrive in time to see us all go down in a blaze of glory?"

Keeping up his carefully constructed facade despite the concerted forces of erosion bearing down upon him, the architect pressed, "Decepticons are not suicidal. You must have a plan."

"Several." Onslaught glanced upward, as if he could see them laid out on the ceiling of the starship. "However, the only one that I see having anything of a chance would be Jazz doing the right thing and gunning you all down and using your fuel to bring the ship away from Aldebaran's gravity well. One of our own would have the courage to complete such a deed, but I worry for you Autobots. Your so-called compassion may doom us all."

"You're saying that big lunk is right?" Cliffjumper demanded incredulously, his little optics wide.

"Cliffjumper, let us be gone," Grapple stated firmly, attempting to stare Onslaught down, but the Combaticon had the gaze of a stone statue. He must have a core of stone, too, to suggest such grisly deeds so casually. Appalled, Grapple broke contact and turned, listening to make certain that Cliffjumper was coming.

"This isn't it, is it, Grapple?" Cliffjumper asked, clearly looking for reassurance.

"We will be fine," Grapple lied, squeezing his way through the strapped down cargo. The cargo hold was a bit of a maze and rather awkward, he thought. They would make it, doubtless. Jazz was a master of last-minute saves, but the last thing he needed was Cliffjumper trying something stupid. He was halfway up the ladder before he realised that Cliffjumper was not following. Grapple convinced himself that he did not care. Mirage could look after Cliffjumper. He desperately just needed to get back up and clear his head in the troop compartment. Hound was good, if quiet, company.

After mounting the ladder rungs and returning to the cabin, Grapple buckled himself in and folded and refolded his hand with his gun-stump nervously, wishing that the refueler would show soon. Hound sat still and silent, head and shoulders bent slackly. Grapple's optics cycled a blink, reflecting his surprise. Hound was in shutdown cycle? He had not thought Hound was at ease enough to drift off into unawareness. Indeed, the scout usually seemed almost twitchily aware, attentive to details and nuances as subtle as a broken twig. Grapple leaned over a little to get a better look but could not spy the warm blue glow of Hound's optics. Increasingly alarmed, Grapple fumbled at the latches of his safety restraints, worry making his dextrous fingers clumsy. With halting steps, he walked to Hound and knelt down to check on the condition of his friend. Gently, Grapple brought Hound's head up and gasped as if his pneumatic cylinders had been run through with cruel Decepticon lances. The scout's optics were deepest navy, just a shade away from full black. Grapple did not need to be a trained medic to know that Hound was dangerously low on energon. Looking closely, he saw now the dullness of Hound's colours. The darkness had masked much, Grapple rued.

With a glance back towards the ladder down to the cargo hold and the detention cell, Grapple took off for the cockpit at an ill-practised sprint.

* * *

Jazz was not startled by Grapple bursting into the cockpit. He was less than thrilled, yes, but not startled. Things often ended up worse than they seemed. There were a hundred blues riffs on that tune, he knew well, and he had been hearing those sorrowful strains for quite a while now. He tilted his head to one side and inquired, "That bad?"

Grapple's optics were wide as bass speakers and his mouth hung open. His fingers twitched, and he struggled to regain his dignity, pulling himself up straight.

"Just take it slow," Jazz soothed. "Nice and easy. Now, what happened?"

Grapple folded his hand with his gun-stump nervously and looked back over his shoulder, as if to make certain that the cockpit door had locked behind him. He offered, no small trepidation tainting his voice, "I thought that Onslaught was just playing mind games, but clearly, he has gotten loose somehow, and-"

"De capo, Grapple." Jazz winced, realising that the expression was maybe a little too vivid, here on a dying starship in the darkness. "Start from the start."

The architect wrung his hand and then smoothed his fine fingers along his forehead. "Onslaught claimed to be responsible for the fuel leak. He also noted that we are dangerously close to Aldebaran's gravity well and suggest that we should..." Grapple curled his lips with disgust. "...drain out fuel to pull the starship out."

"Typical Decepticreeps," Jazz snorted, unfazed. His core went out to Grapple, whom Jazz knew had not glimpsed a tenth of what Jazz had. War was dirty work, but Jazz's particular line often plunged straight into the sewers. Who knew that New York really did have alligators down there?

Grapple glanced upwards, distraught. Eventually, the architect's lofty thoughts and castles in the sky came back to the ground, and he explained, "No, you see, I found Hound almost completely drained. Onslaught has to be loose."

Jazz tilted his head to the side, considering that hasty conclusion. "Cliffjumper?"

Grapple looked mortified. The winch on his back let his cord go slack a meter or so before he recovered. He whispered, "Primus the maker, I left him down near the detention cell. He is bombastic, but..." Grapple trailed off and about-faced, fingers frantically scrabbling to let himself out.

"Steady, man!" Jazz advised, fingers snapping. The situation was swiftly spiralling out of control, and as far as Jazz could see, the worst of it was coming about because the Autobots were not keeping their cool. Practised and deft, the agent was out of his chair and at Grapple's side faster than a composer could cut time. "We'll go check on him together, a'ight?"

Grapple looked immensely relieved, dropping his line a little farther, and nodded several times.

* * *

Jazz was right, of course. Teamwork was key, whether on a construction job site or stranded in space. Grapple was still jittery, and his cord flicked up and down more than he would have liked. The blasted thing would need to be re-reeled when this was all over, but he had little time to spare for such mundane thoughts.

Grapple paused to show Hound's condition to Jazz, who nodded thoughtfully and commented, "I don't like the look of this. There was no fumbling. The perpetrator knew just how to disable Hound and get the fuel out without a struggle."

Jazz's words made Grapple hesitate. Jazz had a most excellent point, but he had come to that conclusion awfully quickly. Also, the point's implications were darker than the ship.

"You're fidgeting, Grapple."

"Nothing but a nervous tick!" Grapple protested, not in the mood to have his deeds impeached. Was his regret at leaving Cliffjumper alone not enough?

"Right. Let's get going, then." Jazz let the matter drop easily enough and dropped just as easily down the ladder to the cargo hold.

Still shaken, Grapple was a little slower. He lingered near the ladder, attempting to calm or at least distract himself with the memories of old works that the ladder brought back. Jazz had already vanished into the labyrinth of cargo. Grapple surveyed the area, confident at his post near the best way back to the cabin. Was the dimness playing tricks on his optics, or did he spy some red out of place?

With misgivings, Grapple investigated and sunk to his knees at what he beheld. Dull red, like a toy wagon bleached by the sun and attacked by dirt - had not Daniel inherited one if those? He had scorned it for a hover board, of course - Cliffjumper was sprawled on the floor, drained. Art imitated reality, and reality imitated nightmare, there before Grapple.

Grapple did not have long to mourn. In seconds, he was sprawled out on the floor, line still dishevelled.

* * *

Jazz tapped his foot thoughtfully, studying Onslaught. He even brought on his headlights to get a better look at the Combaticon, dispelling the weird shadows that the energy bonds cast on his matte armour in the gloom. The energy bonds were still there and quite intact. Onslaught radiated the bored disdain that quiet prisoners often did. He hardly looked like a fellow who had been up and cannibalising Autobots.

"The urchin has been quiet. Has he gone back up?" Onslaught inquired, voice gliding out of the dark like a night bomber on final approach to its target.

Onslaught could have done it. Onslaught could have done it and locked himself back up. Yeah, sure. Jazz had no need to give away more than was necessary, even something so trivial as the fact that he was not really sure where Cliffjumper had gone. He misdirected, "Don't you worry yourself about Cliffjumper. You hangin' tight, there?"

"I suppose that I will be hung for a full-fledged rather than a factory-fresh," Onslaught replied soberly. "Something is amiss, is it not? Combaticons are ever the fall men."

Jazz glared and turned away. Something was amiss, as the Combaticon had put it, but Onslaught was just talking out his exhaust. He likely had no better idea what was going on than Jazz did, less likely. Then, Jazz's acute audios picked out that the hum of Onslaught's bonds had faded. There was no soft thud, though, that would indicate Onslaught had dropped down. Jazz turned, summoning his photon rifle to his hand. The energy bonds that held Onslaught were gone and the cell door was open. However, the Combaticon hovered in much the same pose he had occupied while restrained. He seemed to be staring intently at something that was not there. Someone. "Mirage?"

Unseen, the spy shot, and Jazz was downed. He had been expecting a little something, though, and he'd shifted a bit as the hit came in. The hunting dark dug in, and he fell convincingly enough, but Jazz remained awake, if barely. Darkness closed in, and static was lurid in the air, drowning out any music he might have heard.

Onslaught hit the floor hard, sending Jazz's frame chattering with the vibration. A dart hit the wall behind him and was followed by several more in a line downward as the Combaticon ducked and rolled. He swept out with a leg, and Jazz could hear the invisible man clatter to the floor. Surprisingly nimble for a missile truck but on par for a well-trained soldier, Onslaught was quickly to his feet. Unfortunately, the Combaticon also brought Jazz to his feet and picked up the Porsche to use as what Jazz could only assume was a living shield.

Jazz assumed wrong. Onslaught pried the rifle from Jazz's unresisting fingers and bodily threw Jazz at the last sound of Mirage.

Suppressing a groan, as dead men did not sing, Jazz reflected that he had definitely connected with something and solidly. His beaten body bore testament. Mirage's invisibility flickered and faded, leaving a mechanism with optics wild as the turbofoxes that he had hunted visible to all.

Onslaught drew a bead on Mirage with Jazz's own rifle, grip secure despite having slightly too-large fingers to really be at ease with the weapon.

Mirage sputtered, "Wait, wait. Don't you want to know why I-"

"Negative," Onslaught answered, sounding bored, and fired. He fired again and a third time, until Mirage was still, grey creeping into his paint. The Combaticon stole over and leaned down in close. He pulled open Mirage's hood, located the spy's laser-core, and brought the rifle up one last time. Onslaught murmured, "Arrogant whelp."

Jazz watched, knowing well that execution-style end was what was coming for him. He had seen it a scattered thousand times through-out the war, and he was still sickened. Onslaught glanced back over his shoulder at Jazz again, and Jazz locked his gears to prepare for what was to come. What had Mirage been thinking? That idiot. Jazz bet Mirage thought that he was saving them all with his free-lancing tactics, and it had come to this. Well, Onslaught would never hear Jazz scream. He put on a brave smile and tried to pull himself back up into a sitting pose. If he could just get his trademark light show going, he might be able to stall Onslaught's, er, onslaught.

"Oh no. I don't think so," Onslaught fairly purred. He planted a firm foot on Jazz's back and levered down with what had to be a bare fraction of his weight and strength. "You disarmed me. I shall have to repay the favour. Anything less would be most discourteous."

"I'm an easy-goin' guy. I'll let it slide," Jazz grunted, refusing to let his spirits flag.

"I do insist." The Combaticon yanked open Jazz's back panel and perused the Porsche's internals with probing fingers. "I believe that Vortex would envy me at this moment. Now then, what do we have here... ah, I see. How, delightful, Mr. Jazz, but I am afraid that I cannot allow you any offensive functionality."

Onslaught yanked, and Jazz's hopes of a light show, a beacon in the darkness, were snatched like his rifle. The Combaticon then knelt and hauled Jazz up into a sitting position. He studied Jazz meditatively, clearly considering angles. At last, Onslaught sat down next to Jazz.

"Just get it over with," Jazz demanded. He knew too much. Onslaught was not his pet interrogator, but if Jazz was not dead yet, he knew it was because Onslaught only had some sicker use planned for the Porsche.

"I intend to. As soon as I get the angles correct to make it seem a suicide."

* * *

After setting the autopilot for a barely civilised ice ball of a world, Onslaught performed the mop-up job with a perfunctory precision. Each Autobot was much like each other one: soft and weak once their hard shells were opened. At last, he came to Jazz and looked down at the special agent with amusement. Jazz had done well. He had simply underestimated the ingenuity of his own troops. Onslaught knelt and curled the already stiffening fingers around the rifle, letting it fall as it would have if Jazz himself had pulled the trigger on that final shot.

Then, Onslaught carefully went through the contents cargo hold. The ship was still, as the Combaticons barracks never were. He welcomed the peace and quiet as he made note of the contents. At last, he recovered his photon missile backpack and his sonic stun gun. Now he was dressed for the kill!

* * *

Blast Off was wary when the radio call crackled through to him. Swindle had set up a bidding pool on Onslaught's fate, and Blast Off would not put it past the little combat car fixing the outcome somehow. However, a quick series of verifications had proved the call legit. Besides, the call came on the old frequencies, the Combaticon frequencies, from the days before Bruticus was the name of their combined form. Few living beings remembered those, and the rest of them were in a ratty bunker on Charr. Telling also was the fact that Blast Off heard nothing on the normal Decepticon frequencies. Here was a message for the Combaticons alone, and the message read: Manny's Metalmelts.

After tossing in his bid to Swindle - that he, Blast Off, would return their illustrious leader - Blast Off had made time as fast as he could for a wretched little ice ball called Mannichi. Re-entry was ever hot, but Blast Off was chilly before he touched down on the frigid surface of Mannichi. The planet, more an over-glorified comet, was rich in gold, a valuable component in circuitry making and an ingredient of the highly-sought electrum coating. Blast Off was often bored when he was doing cargo runs, and what was there to do but read?

Little mining towns dotted the world, but Manny's Metalmelts was in one of the smaller ones, not that any could be called large. Blast Off knew Manny's Metalmelts, although he rather wished that he did not. Squinting, he saw that in flattering lights, the subtitle still read: 'Our melts will de-ice you, or the ice is free.' There was a grease pit if there ever was one, a favourite hangout slum of mining mechanisms, ruffians, and worse. At least the long spaceflight back and fiery re-entry would purge him of the wretched clinging odour of the place, so like a filthy smelter.

Few of the patrons bothered to look up at Blast Off as he stepped into the establishment. After all, there were far weirder things than him already here, if they wished to stare. In a trice, he located his misplaced comrade. Onslaught sat at a tall stool, the only prim and proper figure among a host of leaners and slouchers. Blast Off marched up behind Onslaught and inquired imperiously, "I thought that Brawl was the one who adored this dive."

"Brawl is," Onslaught answered evenly, sipping at a heated carafe of something that might have been energon.

Blast Off harrumphed and crossed his arms before asking, "So, how did you escape?"

"I simply killed them all." Onslaught seemed more interested in his meal than in recounting his valiant deeds.

* * *

Blast Off was not to be thwarted, not after double timing through space and enduring this beastly place. "That goes without saying. Details, Onslaught, details!"

Streetwise and Groove boarded the crashed starship with caution. The fall down to Mannichi had done a number on her, and she was only good for the scrap heap now, First Aid had assessed. Radio calls had raised no replies, and Streetwise had girded himself for the worst. The first execution-style kill still hit him like one of Bruticus's punches. Streetwise could see that Groove was wavering by the time that they found Cliffjumper. Gently, he urged, "Go back up, Groove."

Groove shook his head and insisted weakly, "No, man. Onslaught could still be around. Got to watch out for my bro."

When they found Grapple, Groove took up Streetwise's offer, and Hot Spot replaced the smaller motorcycle. The fire truck sighed at what he saw but stayed strong. He commented, bitter in the cold, "I should have come in here first."

"It's a tight squeeze," Streetwise noted absently, detachment the last device he had against forcibly ejecting his fuel. He felt sicker than he had when his brothers had gotten into a drinking contest with the Technobots.

Hot Spot noted, "I just know basic emergency field repairs, but the wounds don't look like they were done with photon missiles or a sonic stun rifle."

Streetwise was haltingly forced to agree. Practised in the unfortunate work of forensics, he had to admit that the shots looked more like those from a photon rifle.

When they found Jazz, Streetwise's fuel joined the dead Autobot on the floor.

**The End**


End file.
